CHUCK CLOSE and JACK HIRSHMAN R.I.P.

 

When I lived in lower Manhattan with my little boy, Miles, in the 1970s, I would pick him up after work from his after school program and we'd tour the downtown galleries before eating somewhere that had hamburgers, his favorite dinner. I remember seeing a show of Chuck Close's giant photo-realist portraits and both Miles and I digging it.

Early in this century I took part in a Hollywood themed benefit poetry reading at the Bowery Poetry Club that included a few movie and TV stars and after it an assistant to Chuck Close came to say the artist wanted to meet me. Close was in his customized wheel chair and very gracious in his praise of my work and I had the feeling was studying my face, I  hoped for a portrait.

The assistant got my number and said I'd be called, but never was. I figured that Close had more important things on his schedule. Condolences to his family, friends, and fans.

I ran into poet Jack Hirshman in the 1960s, but didn't get to know him until the 1980s when he sent me a letter out of the blue and we had a brief correspondence that included him sending piles of handwritten poems, which I later learned he was prone to do. Then, as abruptly as it began, he stopped sending me poems.

Though we didn't agree on everything, we were poets who shared a deep need (some would say compulsion) to write, no matter what, and did it our way, no matter what. Jack was an original in more than just his poetry, and though he had a long life, longer than many expected, he will still be missed by many, including me. Rest In Poetry, Jack.